


Stealing

by SQ (proteinscollide)



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-02
Updated: 2007-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 05:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proteinscollide/pseuds/SQ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Sometimes I steal things I don’t need.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stealing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [provetheworst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/provetheworst/gifts).



> Many thanks to littlerhymes and disarm_d for being excellent and speedy betas.
> 
> Title and summary from Stealing by Carol Ann Duffy

When Pete had come into his inheritance, his family lawyer tried for once to be the parental figure he’d had been missing for too many years; sat him down and said too seriously, “You know, son, think of the money as a gift, but don’t let it get in the way of living. Find something useful to do with yourself.” Pete had been eighteen then and hardly in the mood for lofty advice from strangers. Maybe his parents had once had great plans for him, but there’s no one left to make sure he fulfils them. It’s just easier to become accustomed to endless aimless days; too much money, too much time and no one to spend it with.

Today’s diversion involves the armchair he’s come to think of as his own, a corner of Borders between the bookshelves and the music aisles, a pile of books he doesn’t mean to pay for, and an iPod full of music. But then two boys drift by him, obviously in the middle of a heated discussion, and Pete watches them instead, with interest, out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m just saying you can’t appreciate the damn songs if you won’t acknowledge the genius of their work as a whole.” The shorter guy, a pale kid with a cap jammed over a mess of fine hair, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with one hand, uses the other to wave over the nearest rack of CDs.

The other boy grins good-naturedly, as if he’s heard this argument too many times to be worried about its vehemence and veracity. He says to his friend, “We’ve been over this before, Patrick. They got sloppy in the playing on the fourth and fifth albums, and nothing will save that. Great songs, but.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and picks up one of the CDs by his side without even looking, and grudgingly says, working up to a full argument, “Yeah, yeah, but, Joe - ”

Joe has already moved on though, drifting through the aisles in search of something else, and so his friend sighs and goes to put the CD back onto the shelf. Some force of curiosity propels Pete to his feet, and he stops Patrick mid-movement, their hands overlapped on the album.

“Hey,” Pete says disarmingly. “I’ve always really wanted to get into these guys. Which album would you recommend?”

Patrick ducks his head, shuffles his feet. He shifts his hand, but Pete keeps his hand steady on the CD so he can’t pull away. “Uh, I don’t work here, sorry,” he mumbles.

“No, but you know what you’re talking about,” Pete counters. “Sorry, I was eavesdropping. So, this one?”

“Yeah, and their first one, if you’re really serious about appreciating how fucking good they are,” Patrick says, a shy smile creeping into the corners of his mouth. “It’s not like anyone even knew they existed before their third, but - ”

“I bet you did though,” Pete says, teasing and admiring all in one; Patrick’s warming up to the topic, and Pete’s warming up to this kid. He wonders briefly what it would be like to kiss that mouth, to suck on those lips; and maybe Pete stares a moment too long or Patrick’s psychic, because Patrick glances up into Pete’s eyes suddenly and starts to blush to the tips of his ears.

In that moment, Joe pops up two aisles across and yells, “Hey Stump, I found that reissue you were looking all over for last week.”

Patrick pulls away, and mumbles, “Uh, anyway, these two – that’ll get you started - ” as he pulls another album from the rack and put them in Pete’s hands. “I should get going.”

Pete steps back and says, “No, sorry, I was keeping you,” and lets Patrick brush past him, warm and solid and fleeting.

He looks down at the two CDs, and then sneaks a look around; early morning in a suburban Borders, no one else is around except for Patrick and Joe, and they have their heads bent low over in the corner. Pete returns to his pile of books, rifles through until he finds the one comic he’s already skimmed, and takes it all to the front counter. There’s one girl on duty here, Emma, who has a crush on Pete and when Pete greets her with a breezy, “How’s it going?” and his most charming smile, she giggles, startled, and doesn’t even bother look down as what she’s scanning.

“Good – no, I’m lying.” She sighs dramatically, and Pete leans forward, just a fraction, signalling an interest he doesn’t really feel. As she launches into her latest diatribe with gusto, Pete picks up the bag with his lone purchase in it and holds it below the height of the counter, slipping the two CDs in easily.

When she winds down finally, shaking her head ruefully, she asks, “And just the one thing today?”

Pete lies smoothly, “Yeah, low finances, you know how it is.”

She says, “Don’t I know it,” ringing up the cash he gives her. Pete mirrors her expression, parroting sympathy, and she giggles and gives his face a fond pat. As he turns to go after saying goodbye, Pete waits a beat, then does a deliberate double take and says, “Wait, Em, did you scan this? I don’t want to set the security system off.” He lifts the bag back onto the counter and she makes a goofy face as she drags the whole bag across the magnetic plate, even thanks Pete for reminding her, apologetic. Pete waves at her as he walks through the security gates without a hitch.

He wanders down the arcade and gets himself a coffee, and as he heads back, wondering how he’s going to fill the rest of his day now, he runs into Patrick, rushing out the doors.

“Sorry, I’m in a – hey, man. You bought those albums?” Patrick asks, as he recognises Pete, and now it’s Pete’s turn to duck his head, shy. “Uh, yeah,” he says, and then blurts out, tongue-tied and surprised at himself for being so, “Do you, um, want to go get a coffee with me?”

Patrick gives a quick puzzled glance at the cup already in Pete’s hand, but he hesitates before saying, “Uh I’d love to but I have to go to work now.”

Pete nods and says, “Right, no, forget I said that. It was nice, um, meeting you. Oh, I’m Pete.” He sticks his hand out awkwardly, and Patrick shakes it quickly and says, “Patrick.” He holds on a second too long, that smile curling around his lips again, and Pete feels like someone’s hit him low in the gut.

But then Patrick glances up and catches the time on the clock just behind them and drops Pete’s hand. “Oh shit, _work_ – look, I really hope I see you around, yeah?”

And Pete can only force a grin and says, “Yeah, me too,” at Patrick’s back as he flees.

Pete doesn’t know why it matters to him in that moment that he has those two CDs, why he wants to go home and listen to them just so he’ll have something intelligent and worthy to say to Patrick if he meets him again. It shouldn’t matter, just another chance encounter, and god knows Pete manages enough of those, with all that time to spare and his penchant for shiny amusement and pretty boys. But still, he can’t stop himself from following Patrick at a distance and finding out where he works, just in case he needs it for future reference.

*

Pete’s a regular at the club because it fills up the hours from dark to dawn. He used to lie in bed at night, memorising the pattern on his ceiling; but this, the anonymity, the opportunities afforded, is much better. He passes through the corridors with eyes glazed like he’s not looking for anything, and people flock to him instead, hooded eyes and glossed lips. But he takes a shine to Ryan, watches him night after night from across the dancefloor, because the boy never looks back at him or anyone else, aloof even in a group of friends. Pete has to drop a couple of hints and extra tips to the guys behind the bar before they come back with a name and a sneer. “Straight-edged,” Tom the barman says, slamming Pete’s equally non-alcoholic drink on the bar with disdain. Pete takes a sip but he’s already drunk on the pulsing beat, the speeding up of his heart at the idea of something new and beautiful that isn’t his yet.

Pete corners Ryan eventually in the wide-enough corridor from one room to the next, presses up against him, smiling with a crooked mouth when Ryan twists around to bitch him out. He swoops upwards and presses his mouth to Ryan’s, nipping at the other boy’s lips for entry and response. Ryan kisses light and teasing, hands kept primly on Pete’s waist, but he doesn’t stop Pete from skimming his hands over every part of Ryan’s body that he can reach; the bumps of his ribs, the curve of his hips, the warmth at his neck. There’s nothing but a faint taste of berry in their kisses, no chemical burn or intoxication, but Pete smiles faintly to himself when Ryan works himself hard against Pete’s thigh between breaths, desperate and pretty. As Ryan pants against his ear, mouth pressed loosely to the side of Pete’s mouth, Pete slips his hand into the back pocket of Ryan’s jeans and slips one finger through the key ring, lifts the set with a clean jerk and tucks it into his palm. He pulls back just a fraction only for Ryan to mewl his displeasure, and Pete knows his theft has gone unnoticed.

There’s a little 24 hour hole in the wall place nearby, and Pete shivers, arms tucked around his body, as he waits impatiently for a copy of the keys to be cut. Ryan’s still in the club when he gets back, just as Pete expected; leaning against a tall blonde girl who winds an arm, kisses around him possessively as they move to the music. Pete takes his time weaving his way through the crowd in their direction, waits for a frenzy in the dancers around them to knock his body into Ryan’s, a calculated accident. _Hey, those your keys?_ he mouths at Ryan after a quick apology, a nod to indicate the set now on the floor. Ryan smiles tightly, a murmured _Thanks_ in return, eyes averted from Pete, telegraphing his guilt but his girlfriend stands oblivious at his side. Pete keeps up his stranger act, lets the crowd carry him away, but he keeps an eye on Ryan all night, and when Ryan walks home in the small hours of night, Pete follows him all the way home and notes where he lives.

Pete lets himself into the small house the next day, after seeing Ryan leave fifteen minutes before for class, satchel swinging at his side. Ryan’s house is one of the eeriest he’s ever been inside; houses seem to die during the day, under the sunlight, abandoned for work and school, but more than that there’s a mausoleum feel to this place, rooms that are excessively tidy and structured, with wide open floor space around furniture placed just so. Pete itches for chaos; maybe later, maybe another day. He moves silently and quickly through the whole house, casing it mentally: kitchenette, a small bare bathroom, a master bedroom austere and decidedly male, and a smaller room that Pete is sure belongs to Ryan.

Pete lies on the bed and drinks it in, what the room tells him about its occupant; the band posters, the novels on the shelves, the guitar in the corner on its stand. He opens drawers and cupboards and the wardrobe, looks but doesn’t touch. The break-ins are never about material goods, but the discovery of secrets. Pete hits jackpot in Ryan’s room when he slides his hand under the pillow and finds the slim journal barely hidden there. He throws himself onto the covers, lies on his stomach and flips through Ryan’s diary; reads Ryan’s undated stream-of-consciousness thoughts out loud to roll the ideas through his mouth and his mind. There’s an echo of his own that Pete recognises, and some spark of mischief makes him bold. He finds a piece of scrap paper, a pen in the same colour ink, and practices Ryan’s handwriting, over and over, until he has a satisfactory facsimile, and then he picks up from the last page, undated, and writes his own thoughts and secrets in, blending it amongst Ryan’s.

*

Brendon collides with Pete as they both try to pass through the automated doors of the 7-11 at the same time, and the younger boy brushes it off with a cocky smile and a barely there apology. Pete blinks, and as Brendon turns away he says, instinctively, “Hey kid, I think you left your car without locking it.” He smiles his biggest toothiest grin, radiating harmlessness, and Brendon just gives him a quizzical look before pointing the remote over his shoulder. Pete suppresses his laughter when the lights on a purple van in the corner of the parking lot flash once, with a faint hoot. “My bad,” Pete says easily, shrugging, but Brendon’s already walked into the store ahead of him, marching straight up to the counter and slinging his keys onto its surface, a jangling set with a pair of plastic red and white dice on a silver chain with a blue carabiner on the end.

“Spencer!” he yells, too loud in the near-empty store. The cashier, a tall fair-haired boy, turns around from where he’s been cleaning the side of the Slurpee machine unenthusiastically, notes Brendon at the counter and sighs. He leans over and snags the largest cup from the side, pulls the lever, and Pete watches, entranced, as the two of them spend the next few minutes flirting wordlessly from across the store, Brendon looking like he could eat the other boy up, and ‘Hi-my-name-is-Spencer’ managing an impressive mask of boredom even as he keeps his eyes on Brendon the entire time.

“Spencer,” Brendon says again, happily, when the boy brings his Slurpee over. “You are the best, you know? You are the very reason I visit this fine establishment, even if there are two other convenience stores between here and my house.”

Spencer holds his hand out and says, “Urie, it’s still not free. I make your fucking drink because you always manage to come in right after I’ve just cleaned the damn machine and the floor around it. Do you, like, sit in the parking lot watching for your moment?”

Brendon takes a big gulp of his Slurpee before he burbles on over the top of Spencer, as if he hasn’t heard a word the other boy’s saying, ice crystals at the corner of his mouth, lips pink and slick. “Spence, what time do you finish today? Want to go catch a movie with me? I’ll make it worth your while.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Spencer ducks his head as if to hide his smile, but it’s clearly evident through his bangs.

“That’s not what Ryan said,” Spencer retorts a beat late, and he steps around Brendon to the side counter, busying himself with the hot dogs in their heated stand. Brendon slides purposefully around the corner to follow him, pleading his case; their voices are still clearly audible, but now both boys are obscured from view. Pete stopped in for some porn to fill in the boredom of another afternoon, maybe a cold drink as well, but the keys on the counter, abandoned, catch his eye and finds himself thinking, _Why not?_ So he just leans over, picks them up silently, and walks out the automated doors unnoticed. It’s not until he’s rolling out the exit, windows wound all the way down, when he hears a loud “HEY!” from behind him, and in the rearview mirror he can see the kid, eyes wide in surprise, smaller and smaller and further away as he drives on.

But Pete has nowhere to go, and a purple van is pretty fucking conspicuous. He pulls over onto the shoulder of the road when he passes the sign for the last exit out of town, and rifles through the car perfunctorily. In the glovebox he finds one pair of sunglasses, framed in white; a jumble of CDs, none of which match the cases they’re in; three half-finished packs of bubblegum; a Jesus Cares bumper sticker and a fish figurine buried underneath all the mess; and a set of registration papers. There’s nothing that really interests Pete, and he’s gone as far as he can go with the car, so he declares this joyride a dead end, consults the map in the side pocket, executes a quick u-turn, and drives right back to registered address where he parks the car outside. It’s still early afternoon in the quiet suburban street, and nothing and no one stirs in the warm sunshine. Pete crawls into one of the backseats and falls asleep.

He wakes a little while later – the sun lower in the sky, melting into orange skies – to the sound of the door panel sliding open, and opens his eyes to owner of the car looking furious in the doorway, skinny and shaking. “What the fuck – Who the hell are - Do you know how fucking mad my parents would’ve been?”

Pete doesn’t feel sorry for the kid at all, has no apologies for him. But he sits up and grabs Brendon by the shirtfront and hauls him in, slamming the door shut behind them. It’s dark in the back of the van, the dying light struggling through the front windows, and Pete can sense Brendon not so much by sight but touch and sound; the crush of his body tight against Pete’s, his ragged breathing harsh and loud. He bears down and kisses Brendon hard, one hand fisting in the other boy’s hair and keeping him close, his other hand snaking under Brendon’s shirt, unbuttoning his jeans. He keeps his mouth close as he jerks Brendon off, too slow at first, taking in every hitch and cry in Brendon’s gasping voice as he slides his hand around the shaft.

“Anyone could pass by, peer in and see us. Your parents, your friends - ” Pete whispers in Brendon’s ear as he speeds up his movements, waiting to see if the boy sees it as a threat or a thrill; maybe a bit of both, as Brendon shifts his hips closer but bites his bottom lip to keep the sound in. The seconds passing hot and musty in the van with all the doors and windows closed, and as it grows dark outside and the streetlights blink on, Pete strokes faster, wanting Brendon to come, feeling the awkward angle of his hand, hampered by the tight jeans that Brendon’s barely managed to push down. Pete kisses Brendon again, tongue in Brendon’s mouth, and slides his free hand to the curve of Brendon’s ass and then lower. Brendon whimpers at the touch and comes with a shudder against Pete’s hand. He licks Pete’s palm clean when Pete raises it to his mouth, eager and clingy, slumping into Pete’s side and tangling their legs together.

Pete lets him have a moment before pulling away fast. He reaches deep into his back pocket where the kid’s keys are digging into his ass, yanks the set out and drops it into his lap, fly still unbuttoned. He steals one last kiss from Brendon’s swollen mouth, steps over him to clamber out of the van, and walks away without looking back, leaving the door wide open.

*

Breaking into Patrick’s house for the first time is like opening presents on Christmas Day. Between hanging out with his friends and work, Patrick hasn’t given Pete any chance of stealing his keys, but with a little trial and error Pete discovers that the locks on these apartment doors are a credit card away from being a useless joke anyway; possibly the incredibly shabby appearance of the block is enough of a deterrent for more materially-minded thieves.

The first thing Pete checks out is Patrick’s fridge; he hasn’t had anything substantial to eat since breakfast yesterday. There’s a jar of pickles, half a bottle of milk, two beers, a packet of processed cheese, and nothing else, but Pete hums happily as he fixes himself lunch, helping himself to two slices of bread from the loaf on the kitchen counter. He leaves a trail of crumbs from the kitchen to the lounge that obviously doubles as Patrick’s bedroom and makeshift studio, and turns around and around in amazement at the instruments and equipment scattered around the room. Pete respects Patrick enough not to touch a particularly handsome Gibson while his fingers are still sticky, but after lunch, he picks up an older acoustic and strums at it for a little while, regretting that he never learnt anything much beyond the basic three chords. He can play the whole of House of the Rising Sun though, so he does.

Patrick’s laptop is still sitting on the table by his futon, open with the screen dark. But when Pete runs his fingers over keys, the mousepad, it springs to life, and that’s as good as an invitation for Pete. There’s a folder on the desktop simply labelled ‘songs’ and Pete opens it curiously. He means only to listen to a few files, but after the first he feels compelled to hear them all, one by one, enchanted and wondering if they’re all as good as the last. It’s almost dark before Pete comes to, and realises Patrick must be due home soon before work. Before he lets himself out though, he turns on every light in the flat, so that when he looks back from the street he can see its welcome blazing glow, as if calling him back.

*

He stole Hemingway on another jerk impulse a year ago, walking past this row of houses with white picket fences and roses and perfection that made him bitter. He’d been thinking about breaking into one of them, the whole row of them, and making a mess, bringing chaos, but his train of thought had been disturbed by this tiny puppy yelping at him from behind the fence, unattended. Pete had looked into its permanently frowning face; and some long buried childhood dream made him lean over and scoop the puppy into his arms, tucking him into the inside of his jacket. Pete’s not even equipped to look after himself let alone a dog, if he’d been honest about it, but he’s not. The puppy had squirmed until it found a comfortable position in the crook of Pete’s arms, and then he’d nosed Pete through the material of his shirt enthusiastically. Pete took him to the park nearby, lay down on the grass and held the sleeping puppy against his chest for the afternoon, man and dog daydreaming.

He’d taken Hemingway back to house at sunset, and placed him gently back on the right side of the fence, biting his lip as he heard the puppy whine for him as he walked away. Pete sees it as a sign of weakness he’s never admitted before, but he goes back every few days and takes Hemmy for walks, watches him grow up. It turns out some little old lady owns the place and the dog, and she’s in no position to look after either; when she finally catches Pete liberating Hemmy for the afternoon, she only peers bemusedly at him before muttering something about interfering carers and dog walkers, and doesn’t stop him.

It’s Hemmy who brings Jon to him. Pete’s seen him around, settled on the benches lining the green with his camera on his lap, fiddling around with its attachments, patiently waiting for that perfect shot. But the day Jon approaches him, it’s been an almost perfect afternoon – it feels like there’s no one else in the world but him and Hemmy out in the sunshine, naturally exhausted from chasing the excited puppy from one end of the park to the other. He drops to the grass in the very centre of the field after one long round of chase, and Hemingway eventually noses his way over and collapses by his side, soft fur and body pressed against the inside of Pete’s arm, his face scrunched up in Pete’s direction. Pete pats him softly and feels normal and real.

A shadow falls over the idyll, and Pete raises one hand to his eyes and squints up at the boy with the camera. “Sorry to disturb you,” Jon says steadily, “but I wanted – do you mind if I just take a few snaps? Of you, of the dog.”

Pete frowns, and sits up, dusting the grass from his side. Hemmy shifts and whines, notices Jon and gets up too, wandering over slowly to sniff at Jon’s shoes. Jon grins, and with a beseeching look at Pete, lifts his camera and aims it downwards. Pete smiles and waves his hand, says, “Go ahead, be my guest. I’m Pete, and he’s Hemingway.”

“Jon,” the boy says, not looking up from where he’s framing the shot on his SLR. “And since we’re now on friendly terms, I guess I should admit that I already took some shots of you and Hemingway today. You guys looked like you were having fun out there. I only asked permission because I wanted an excuse to come over and say hi.” Jon grins good-naturedly as he speaks, and Pete can’t help but recognise the easy-going charm being thrown his way, and laugh in return.

The camera clicks and whirs briefly, and Hem looks up as far as his little doggy neck will allow. Jon nods to himself, satisfied at the displayed shot, and then turns the camera so Pete can see the screen as he scrolls back quickly over the last few photos: Pete, blurry with motion, with Hemingway nipping at his heels or leading the way fearlessly, small and colourful against the yellows and greens around them.

“They’re good shots,” Pete concedes, and Jon grins and says, “I know. Alright, I’m off to find my next lot of victims and subjects. Good to meet you, Pete. And you too, Hemingway. See you again sometime.” He bends down and pats Hem as he speaks, serious, and the dog tilts his head and nudges into Jon’s hand as goodbye.

It becomes routine, taking Hemingway out for walks and running into Jon, stopping for a chat and a review of Jon’s latest photos. Out of curiosity, Pete follows Jon home one day at a distance, and finds out Jon only lives a brisk five minutes walk from the green. A little further investigation of the apartment (made easier by a loosely latched screen door on a ground floor balcony) reveals the possibility of a girlfriend in residence, and a grey and white cat who attacks his socks with little claws and soft purrs. But Pete’s more taken with the photos on almost every available surface, walks through the apartment and learns about the people in Jon’s life through the candids. Pete had seen Jon down at the basketball courts at the park before he came, so it’s not a real surprise to see Jon’s left his camera sitting on a dresser in the bedroom. Maybe it’s why he came, the temptation to be able to see the world as Jon does; when Pete leaves he takes the camera with him. But he has an inkling how much this means to Jon and something sharp gnaws at him for the action - before, he’d always thought he was liberating things people hadn’t realised they treasured - so he leaves a note in uncharacteristically spiky handwriting - _It’ll be back, I promise._.

The next morning, he wakes up in his own bed, disoriented. As he lies there, the grey walls seem to be closing in on him, bare and empty and cold as his whole house. Pete spies to the camera beside the bed on the floor, and decides to chronicle his day in photos like Jon does. Maybe it will give the day, and him, some direction, some purpose. He sits in cafés and takes shots of the people who serve him but don’t see him; he sits across a busy intersection and snaps shots of the people hurrying for some unseen goal; shots of the curved lines and old monuments of buildings, high above; photos of the dogs in his neighbourhood behind fences and windows; and a catalogue of objects he takes from oblivious people, the things he admires but doesn’t need.

Eventually he finds himself drawn to where Patrick works, a second hand bookshop off the main shopping strip. He takes too many shots of Patrick going about his day, the pictures bleeding into each other, and defiantly leaves every single one. But the last shot he takes is of himself, set up with the help of two mirrors, an illusion of himself sucked into the gap between two reflections. After that he returns the camera safe and sound to the exact spot where he took it from. His note is not there anymore.

*

Pete runs into Ryan again at the club, purple light and smoke blanketing their expressions, but there’s been enough time between one encounter to the next for the desire to be there. Pete reaches out and grabs Ryan by the wrist and Ryan lets himself be towed through the crowd, scowling at the people they push past. On the way out, it’s quiet enough to talk, except for the echo of the frantic, insistent beat downstairs; Pete leans forwards and says quietly, surely, into Ryan’s ear, “I want you take me home and let me fuck you.” Ryan barely blinks, but his mouth curls into a smile that Pete matches, the sated feeling of both parties getting what they want.

Lying in bed over Ryan, it feels familiar for a first time - these sheets, the silent eerie house, the posters on the wall. The headboard that he sat against while reading the journal under Ryan’s pillow; now Ryan’s knuckles brush against the wood as Pete presses his hands against the flat insides of Ryan’s wrists and holds him down. Ryan writhes underneath him, insistent and impatient. The rhythm is all wrong, Ryan ready to go but walled away inside his head, his own pleasure, and Pete’s selfish enough himself to want more. He thinks again about the journal, the words inside, the real Ryan.

“I want to hear you - ” Pete says, demanding, and Ryan rolls his eyes and makes a few bored pants and moans. Pete shakes his head and laughs shortly, and says in a low knowing voice, “No, not like that. You like words, write them down somewhere, right? Tell me something, words and thoughts.”

Ryan stills, his eyes very dark, and for a moment Pete wonders if he’s pushed too far, miscalculated. But then Ryan seems to garner the courage to start, licking and mouthing words into the skin of Pete’s arms, then higher, along his collarbone, his neck, his mouth. Until Pete’s fucking him and he’s burbling directly into Pete’s ears, and Pete recognises the words, familiar and pleasing to him because he’s already read them, stolen them from Ryan’s diary. And then, even more familiar, Pete’s reciting the things Pete wrote, and Pete comes in the middle of one brutally honest sentence, a horrible narcissism that Ryan doesn’t realise. He falls asleep tucked into the crook of Pete’s arm, very young and warm.

When Pete wakes up, he carefully detaches Ryan from his side, and wanders familiarly into the kitchen, where he makes himself a coffee. He drinks it in the living room, considering again the ridiculously neat layout, and he spends a good twenty minutes moving things around, just tiny changes – a corner a few centimetres that way, a footstall in a pathway, photos on the mantelpiece now on a windowsill. He lets himself out without washing his cup and without saying goodbye; passes the bin by the side of the house, its lid askew, and doesn’t see the bottles and bottles littering its inside.

Two nights later, Pete slides into place beside Ryan at the bar. He opens his mouth to say hello, not expecting anything else but a greeting; he’s gotten all he’s wanted from Ryan. But as Ryan turns and notices him there, he spits out, “You asshole,” and his fist catches Pete square in the jaw.

Down he goes, sucker punched.

Pete regains his senses as his elbow hits the floor first, pain shooting up his arm, paradoxically numbing at the same time. He hears the blood rushing in his ears, feels the floor space open around them, the shadow of Ryan standing above him, arms crossed and body tense. He touches the spot where Ryan hit him, feels the heat pulsing under the skin threatening to swell, and pushes himself up into a crouch. He gives a wan smile, looks away for a second as if truly wounded, then rears up with a snarl and grabs Ryan around the waist with both arms, tackles him down. Ryan struggles, but Pete’s spent some of his wasted time at the gym, he has muscle and an angry determination on his side. Pete draws his arm back to give back as good as he got, the little fucker, because what kind of greeting is that? But in the shifting light he catches the mottled pattern over Ryan’s face, the edge of a fading black eye, the cut on his lip. Still straddling the younger boy, Pete takes his chin in one hand instead, turning it from side to side to catalogue the extent of the damage.

“Get off me,” Ryan spits out.

“What happened?” Pete asks. Through the roar of blood still in his ears he hears the muted worry in his voice. Dimly, he realises he may actually care.

“I – someone fell,” Ryan says dully. “Look, there was a fucking reason why everything in the house is – a reason why my house is like that. So when my dad comes home from work in the morning he doesn’t – it’s usually still dark out, and he can’t see clear – He didn’t.” Ryan takes a deep breath, and knocks Pete’s hand aside, a wobbly sneer on his face. “You screwed up, Pete.”

As Pete sits there, letting the consequences sink in for once, someone grabs at his shirt from behind, an indignant, strangely familiar voice sharp in his ears, “Didn’t you hear him, man? Fucking get off him.” Pete raises his arms in the air in mock surrender and gets up, lets Ryan go. Ryan’s rescuer, fair hair and piercing blue eyes, wraps an around his shoulders, murmuring into his ear, and Pete feels their accusatory glares on him as he stumbles away.

*

The next time Pete bumps into Jon in the park, he’s as open and friendly as ever, chatting away to Pete about his day, the dusk-light. Out of nowhere, Jon asks, “Hey, are you busy right now?” He doesn’t wait for an answer though before he adds, “C’mon, follow me.”

Pete, amused by Jon’s assumption and intrigued, says, “Yeah, okay, but I have to return Hemmy first.”

Jon glances over, gives Pete a fond, exasperated look, and mutters, “That figures.” Pete blinks at the answer, but Jon doesn’t say anything more, so Pete just chalks it up to paranoia floating over the residual guilt he can’t shake about taking Jon’s camera.

They take the train downtown, and head for a little café not far from the Borders where Pete first met Patrick, not far from where Patrick works. Inside, a small crowd is milling amongst the chairs and tables, and a short wiry guy with an impressive set of tattoos up and down his arms is pushing furniture aside, clearing a space by the counter where he sets up a stool.

“Andy, my boss, he recognised someone from the photos you took,” Jon says quietly in Pete’s ear as they slide through the crowd towards the front of the store. “They weren’t bad for a beginner. Anyway, thanks for returning the camera.” There’s no malice in Jon’s voice, the sentiment genuine, and Pete wonders what he’s in for. Then he realises the familiar looking guy with the familiar looking guitar hopping up on the stool is Patrick.

“I hope you like the show,” Jon says cheekily. Pete’s still staring at Patrick in happy disbelief – Jon’s brought him to Patrick in return for stealing his camera? – so he turns belatedly and says, “Wait, what?” But Jon’s already slipped away.

Pete’s spellbound as he listens to the music. He’s already heard many of these songs, he recognises them as the instrumental snippets and recordings on Patrick’s laptop, but he’s never heard Patrick sing before. His voice dives deep inside Pete, winds its way around his chest and down his spine, pulls tight and makes him shiver with pleasure. It triggers something else too, something strange and new, an itch to pick up a pen and write again: thoughts about the way the music makes him feel, words for Patrick to sing.

But it makes him shy too, and Pete has to work up the nerve to approach Patrick afterwards to tell him he liked the music and his singing, in fact, _everything_ ; and he hopes meagre words can convey that, knows they can’t.

“Hey, I thought – I really liked – you were _awesome_ , man.” Pete curses himself inwardly for how awkward he sounds, but Patrick looks up from packing away his guitar, cheeks blooming pink, and he stutters in return, “T-thanks. I – I’m glad - ” He fiddles with his picks, then says hesitantly, “You’re the guy from Borders a few weeks ago, right? Pete.”

Pete can’t help but grin widely, delighted. “You remembered!”

“You’re memorable,” Patrick says, then he clamps his mouth shut and opens his eyes wide, as if he can’t believe he just said that out loud. Pete laughs, elated, and the conversation flows easily after that. Pete’s in the middle of retelling a long-ago prank involving a lab monkey, coffee beans and too much alcohol after finals, Patrick doubled over with his arms crossed and clutching at his sides in admiring laughter, when Joe comes up and taps Patrick on the shoulder apologetically.

“Sorry,” Joe says to Pete, then to Patrick, “Hey dude, Andy says you gotta pack your shit up and head out. He’s ready to close up for the night.”

Pete looks over Patrick’s shoulder to see Andy standing in the doorway, arms akimbo, glaring at the handful of stragglers still in the café, though two of them are wiping down tables and stacking chairs. Patrick grimaces and says, “Yeah Joe, I’ll be just a sec, Pete and I - ” He stops, uncertain, and glances up at Pete quickly.

“No, I was keeping you,” Pete says, suddenly conscious of the echo, but Patrick smiles, remembering. Encouraged, Pete reaches out and strums the guitar in the case between them, a formless chord. It’s an impulsive motion, and Pete stills when Patrick frowns in the moment after, as if the gesture seemed too intimate too soon. But he doesn’t comment, just snaps the case shut, and Pete knows everything is alright when he smiles brightly at Pete and says, “Don’t take another few weeks to find me, okay? I’ll be playing here next Wednesday night as well.”

“I’ll be here,” Pete promises, and he means it. He feels very warm inside, loose and alive.

He doesn’t go straight home, but wanders through the strip of shops, dazed, until the lights wink out, one by one. He cuts through the park, now silent and eerily calm, to drop in at Jon’s place. The screen door is still busted, and Pete enters the flat easily and silently. He walks through the flat to the bedroom with purpose, not stopping to look or touch even though new pictures seem to have sprung up to replace the old, a new set of faces and memories. Jon’s lying on his back fast asleep, on one side of the bed, his arm thrown across the empty space beside him. Pete ducks down and steals a kiss briefly from the corner of Jon’s mouth, a grateful thank you and a goodbye. Jon twitches into a smile in his sleep, and mumbles softly, “Cass,” as Pete backs away quietly.

*

Pete learns to live Wednesday to Wednesday. After the first two weeks, two meetings that always end with Pete and Patrick gravitating into each other’s orbit by the end of the night, Patrick laughs and writes his contact details onto a napkin for Pete – his workplace, his home address, phone numbers.

“Give me a call, drop by sometime, we could get that coffee you offered me once,” Patrick says, laughter and maybe, Pete hopes, maybe a hint, in his voice. “But if you’re busy, remember, Wednesday nights are always reserved for me, promise?”

Pete promises readily, and tucks napkin into the pocket inside his hoodie against his heart, feeling irrationally giddy to have information he already knows. He drops by Patrick’s work the next day, and the day after that; when Patrick teases him gently about his charmed lifestyle, Pete tries to make up for it by buying Patrick lunch, coffees when he flags mid-afternoon, musical imports Patrick tells him about longingly but could never afford on his own. But it never feels enough, not until Pete works up the courage to do the one thing that he’s been dreaming of since he first heard Patrick’s music, dropping a sea-green envelope into Patrick’s letterbox early one morning.

Pete arrives outside the café a little earlier one Wednesday, early enough to catch Patrick setting up. He means to go in but then he sees Patrick pull out a sheaf of papers in a familiar green envelope, and his stomach clenches, nervous. Andy peers over Patrick’s shoulder and Pete can’t hear what he’s saying but he can see him mouthing words, as if reading from the sheet in Patrick’s hand. He points to a section of the page and says something that makes Patrick throw his head back in big gasps of laughter. Pete stares at the pale skin of Patrick’s neck, feeling the burn in his own throat as he swallows the bile rising at the intimacy with which Andy is touching Patrick on the shoulder. Pete turns abruptly and misses Patrick’s performance for the first time in almost two months.

He goes to the club instead, which no longer feels like a refuge after weeks away. He feels like a shit for breaking his promise to Patrick, feels even more like an idiot for thinking he had a real place into Patrick’s life beyond what he’d stolen and lied to get. The shifting lights cast glimpses of the room, and as Pete follows its beam he catches sight of Ryan in the corner of the room. He heads in that direction, glad for at least one familiar face in a sea of nodding acquaintance and one night stands, but in the next sweep of the lights he realises Ryan is busy making out with a dark-haired, vaguely familiar looking boy. He feels tight in the gut, but it’s not jealousy over Ryan; just his loneliness stealing over him like a net, coating him in misery.

Pete goes to the bar and orders a drink, and then another, followed by another, drinking steadily and destructively for the rest of the night. He throws up twice, only making it to the bathroom the first time, and then he’s ejected into the cold night, without his coat. Pete means to walk home, but as he shivers down the street and it begins to rain, the noise in his head that keeps him awake and cold grows too loud and fierce: the jumble of all the things he’s taken that never belonged to him, the deadly boredom of his wasted days. It’s only the counterpoint of Patrick’s voice and the lyrics Pete’s written in his head a thousand times to go with that music that keeps the racket from overwhelming him, so it’s not really a surprise when he finds himself on his knees, scrabbling at the door to Patrick’s apartment, jimmying it open albeit with less skill than usual.

Patrick is asleep on his futon. The weather is howling outside now, rain dashing against the window in heavy uneven beat, splatters of rain pooling into rivulets and sliding off the glass, but Patrick sleeps on peacefully. Pete weaves his way, unsteady, to the foot of the mattress and sits down heavily, toeing off his shoes. Patrick’s eyes flutter open, a stuttered breath as he pulls himself out of sleep. He stares mazily at Pete for a little while, and Pete stares back boldly, drinking in the sight.

Finally, Patrick reaches out by the bed, flicks on the light and pulls on his glasses, a look of recognition ghosting over his face. “Pete,” he says, in a surprised but almost happy voice. “You were in my dreams,” he says. A beat, then as reality slams into him, “Wait, what are you doing in my place?”

“I like your place,” Pete slurs. He reaches out and wraps his fingers around the warm skin of Patrick’s ankle, under the covers, exposed at the hem of his pyjama pants. “It feels more like home to me than my own now. I just wanted to see if it was the same when you were here too.” He slides his hand along the skin of Patrick’s calf, a stroking caress. Patrick shifts, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re the ghost turning on all my lights,” Patrick says slowly. “The spirit drinking all my milk.” He doesn’t sound angry, just enlightened. “Joe’s convinced this flat is haunted because of you.”

Pete smiles crookedly, and shimmies his way up the bed, lying down on his side, facing Patrick. “That’s me,” he says, reckless through the alcohol. “Taking things that don’t belong to me, going where I don’t belong.” He sighs.

“You take stuff that isn’t yours?” Patrick says in a confused voice. “What have you stolen from here?”

“Your songs,” Pete says softly. “I listen to your music and - ”

“You left me the lyrics,” Patrick interrupts him. “You wrote me the letter, the words to fit the music!” He moves Pete’s hand to his waist, to the sliver of skin there, hot and soft. He ducks his head closer and says urgently, “It was you, right?”

“Yes,” Pete says reluctantly. It had been exhilarating, being creative, giving instead of taking, and more than just the objects he could buy, the things he’d once have stolen for the hell of it “It was stupid of me - ”

“You should’ve come to my show tonight,” Patrick said, putting a hand over Pete’s mouth. “I'd written song after song for you, with your own words even. You would’ve known it wasn’t stupid then.” Patrick takes his hand away, and says gently, “You haven’t taken anything from me that I wouldn’t want you to have.”

He brings their lips together and kisses Pete hungrily, the kiss Pete had wished for the first time they met, his hands sliding around Pete, fitting them together. Patrick is soft and tastes sweet, and Pete knows he could fill his days with Patrick and never feel empty again.

END


End file.
